


Approval

by starhawk2005



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cameron’s in the chapel, feeling guilty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Approval

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own either of them. Yet.  
> Author Notes: Spoilery for 'Informed Consent'.

His hand’s on my shoulder.

In a way, I don’t want him here. I don’t really want him to know what I did. 

I didn’t do it to gain his approval.

But his hand’s on my shoulder. I can feel the warmth of it through my clothes. I can even feel his thumb stroking me. 

I’d be enjoying this, if not for the circumstances. If not for the fact I took a life tonight.

But he squeezes my shoulder, and it distracts me from my dark thoughts, my tears. He speaks, startling me. “I’m proud of you,” he says in a low voice.

Then he turns and leaves.

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. I didn’t do it for him. 

I sit in the chapel awhile longer. Part of me wants to punish myself for what I did. Part of me thinks I did the _right_ thing. But there’s still another part of me, and it’s on a completely different track from the others.

How it felt to have House touch me. 

Long, warm fingers wrapped around a part of me. Squeezing me. _Stroking_ me.

How many times have I fantasized about having those hands on me, in me?

I used to picture it endlessly in my mind. What his hand would look like, feel like, splayed over my  brea st.  Cal lused palm rubbing against my nipple, those long fingers cradling my flesh. 

I used to spend way too much time thinking about what he _might_ do, if he dared to try (if I dared to let him). Whether those elegant hands would just shove my thighs apart, and he’d push his way inside me without any other preamble. Or whether those long fingers would spread my folds apart and tease me, first. Whether his oral fixation would come into play and I’d feel that stubble brush across my clit, followed by his tongue. His lips sucking on me as if I was one of the lollipops he’s always ‘borrowing’ from the gift shop.

I’ve stopped thinking that way in recent months. At least, up until now.

I leave the chapel, get my things from the locker room. I don’t stop by House’s office, not even to tell him I’m going home. I need to work some things out for myself. Alone. Besides, if he needs me to be at work, I’m sure he won’t hesitate to call and berate me for not being there.

As I drive, I try to hold on to the sadness, the guilt. When someone dies – especially if you _helped_ them die – it shouldn’t be the kind of thing you ‘get over’ and forget right away. I shouldn’t be able to put it aside so soon.

But halfway home, I realize all I’m thinking about is the weight and warmth of House’s hand. And those thoughts, the ones I haven’t let myself entertain recently, of how he might be in bed with me. How he might touch me, how he might make me climax. How those fingers might invade me, explore me….

I’m starting to think that a very large part of me ‘didn’t get the memo’, that I’m over him.

 


End file.
